Fatum
by G. Hawke
Summary: He chose death and sacrifice, despite his love for the witch, and slew the tainted god. So why does he still live? And why are his dreams haunted by the voice of a child?
1. Prologue

**Prologue:**

_Marcus Cousland is a great many things._

_He is friend, brother, warrior, noble, Grey Warden and most recently, a hero. _

_But not simply a hero. _

_Nay, when he struck his blade into the head of Archdemon and slew the tainted dragon, the ancient Tevinter's God of Beauty, he became the fifth warden in history to end a Blight. Coupled with the fact that this Blight was ended before it truly had a chance to begin and with only two living Wardens in all of Ferelden, this bordered on the miraculous._

_Never in history had a Blight been subdued with the loss of so little._

_So yes, the second born of Highever was more than simply a hero. He was second only to the legend that was the Silver Knight, the ancient Theirin king who united the warring lords and gave rise to a nation._

_Of course Marcus would have scoffed at this and would have simply noted that slaying the Archdemon had nothing to do with being a hero or bravery or even glory. From the moment Duncan dragged him from his doomed parents and their death, from the moment he took into himself the taint and won, and from the moment Loghain betrayed them all at Ostagar, Marcus Cousland knew this path was set._

_He was Grey Warden, and this was what they did. Nothing else mattered anymore, not his noble name, not his country, and not even the fact that his bother and heir to Highever, Fergus, might still be alive in the Wilds somewhere. Wardens concerned themselves with but two things: killing darkspawn and slaying Archdemons._

_Grey Wardens end Blights._

_And thus Marcus simply took hold of the threads of fate, and fulfilled his destiny._

_Or so he thought._

**The Future King:**

Marcus remembered the morning they finally reached the outskirts of Denerim, the capital of Ferelden. It was a large, imposing and solid city, nothing like the beautiful cities of Orlais or Antiva. Some note that even the former slave city of Kirkwall, far in the free marches, held more pure beauty despite the blood and horror of its past. Yes, "solidly imposing" was probably the best praise one could bestow upon Denerim. Not even the imposing Fort Dakon nor the Royal Palace could add a sense of aesthetic grandness to the city of Denerim.

But many people would come to learn that Fereldens couldn't give a damn.

Denerim had character, strong and proud, stubborn as a Mabari and just as good to have on your side. For the religious it was the birthplace of their prophet, for the patriots it was the seat of their king, but for most Fereldens it was much, much more.

Denerim was the heart and soul of their nation.

They knew that horde would reach Denerim before them, knew that their city would be under assault. Marcus could but hope that the city guard had managed to defend the gate, hoping that the city would stand defiant in the face of the unrelenting horde.

It was far worse than anyone expected.

When the burning, broken city finally came into sight that morning a huge groan rose amongst the native Fereldens making up the bulk of the armies of Men, Elves and Dwarves. Even Marcus, hardened Grey Warden he had become, felt fear and anger grip his heart. His city, THEIR city, had been violated and broken.

Turning to his friend and brother, soon to be Ferelden's king, Marcus noted the sorrow that fell upon Alistair's face. For a moment Marcus wondered of his decision to force his sensitive and good hearted friend unto the throne.

Then of course there was convincing him to wed Queen Anora Mac Tir, his brother's widow. Levirate marriages were not uncommon amongst the nobility, but most would admit these were special circumstances.

Marcus had understood Alistair's initial, and still prevalent, distaste of being betrothed to the daughter of the man who killed his brothers. But Anora had always been an enigma; a contradiction wrapped a ball of even more contradictions.

For the last five years, Cailan had been the king but any noble with a shred of intellect knew it was Anora who ran their nation. She was smart and efficient while at the same time finely balancing the need of both force and benevolence in her rule.

And with the Landsmeet locked and the beginning of a civil war precariously hanging in the balance, Marcus could not put faith in the idea that most nobles were staunch traditionalist and royalist like Arl Eamon. By this marriage, the Theirin bloodline would remain upon the throne whilst at the same time ensuring the stable and efficient rule of the last five years was not lost.

And most importantly Marcus knew that Alistair would need her.

Even the best of kings would at times need to be hard and cruel. And the truth was even the kindest of men would begin to lose themselves to the decisions they believed their duty to make. Anora would help him in this, easing Alistair into the more subtle points of being a reigning monarch.

But now, looking at sadness that obscured the usually self-deprecating smile upon Alistair's face, Marcus feared he had doomed his friend to a life he had neither wanted nor seemed equipped to deal with.

But then dear, sweet, dependable Alistair stepped in front of his army to speak, and Marcus was glad.

His voice was strong and piercing, assured and mighty, and it spread amongst the gathered army standing before the ruins of Denerim. The groans were silenced into slight murmurs, but as their king spoke their voices and bravery began to grow, until they grew into an all-consuming roar. And when the king drew his blade and commanded them to charge, the combined armies of all Ferelden obeyed without a question, with bravery in their heart and glory in their souls.

As Marcus watched the army begin their assault, he felt his conviction strengthened and renewed.

His Alistair, his friend and brother, would not be the Silver Knight of legend or King Maric, his late father. But he will be grand; he would be mighty and with Queen Anora's practical hand to guide him through the politics, he would be legend.

Smiling for the first since that last night at Redcliffe, Marcus drew his mighty Starfang and rushed into the all-consuming horde of Darkspawn, finding himself thinking that to insure this future he would have to die this day.

He could find no cause more worthy.

**Farewells:**

The gate was won.

Driving the darkspawn from the city gate was an important tactical move, as it gave them a chance to control - or at least impede - any reinforcement attempting to break through their defences. Of course the fact that the city itself was overrun with darkspawn did seem the more prevalent point, considering that they stood between the Grey Wardens and the Archdemon.

Heeding Riordan's advice Marcus decided to take a small team into the city to move around the bulk of the horde while their allies provided diversions. The Archdemon was the focus; it was important and nothing else mattered. Slay the demon and the horde would break, descending back into maddened chaos that darkspawn commonly exhibit when there was no voice to command and direct them.

Alistair had protested vehemently when he was denied the chance to engage the ancient creature, arguing that Ferelden had no use for kings who stood behind and did nothing. And while Marcus agreed with the statement, both of them knew the real reason for his protest.

"_Only a Grey Warden can kill the Archdemon."_

Grabbing Alistair by his shoulders, Marcus sighed before looking his future king in the eye, finally speaking after a moment of agonising silence.

"Alistair…my friend, my brother, _My Kin_g. It cannot be you."

Silence prevailed again, dragging on for what seemed eternity, when Alistair suddenly grabbed Marcus in a hug that was both tender and rough, their metal plates screeching against each other. When Alistair finally spoke, it was with a voice tempered by both respect and love.

"Go then, last of the Couslands. Know that your king will never forget that Marcus Cousland embraced death as a Grey Warden in service to his duty, to his country and to his king. Know that your death will be membered, and honoured, as long as my heirs sits upon the throne of Denerim. Know that the Couslands will never be forgotten, so long as I draw breath."

Pulling away from the hug, Alistair bowed slightly with unshed tears in his eyes.

"Know that your brother will miss and mourn you, till the end of all things."

And thus the King of Ferelden turned and walked away to the gates, readying to help his troops defend it.

Marcus knew that he would never see his friend again.

Thus it was repeated with all his companions as each one of them attempted to say goodbye or wish luck in their own way. As they spoke Marcus felt, for just a moment, his calm façade failing him. These people were more than simply friends. They had become his family, a calming balm upon his broken heart. They had healed him, allowing him to love and feel again.

A miracle considering how shattered his psyche had been after the death of his entire family.

Marcus was never sure if he would ever truly believe in the Maker, but as he knew that he marched to his death this day, he offered a silent prayer that the lord of all things would accept his sacrifice…and let them live.

_Please, let them live. Let them live._

**The Witch:**

And then there was _his_ witch.

He didn't know when he had begun to think of her as such, nor had he ever expressed it with such certainty. For Marcus knew he had no claim unto her, nor would anyone ever. She was more than simply a woman - she was an act of nature. Cool and destructive as a summer storm, Morrigan was never someone whose heart he would never truly win.

But he loved her all the same.

He knew it was stupid, knew that it was it was futile. Marcus knew from the moment she took him into her bed that she had him, body and soul, and that the only way this would end was badly.

Hell, she had even warned him that it would happen.

But he had persevered, ignoring the obvious distress his growing feelings were causing her. Ignoring all her attempts to keep their relationship simply physical. Every concession he gained from her Marcus considered a victory.

Her first smile.

Her first genuine laugh.

The first time she blushed when he stroked her hair.

Or even a simple thing as allowing him to stay with her till the morning light

Tiny victories, hollow victories, for she always retreated back into her shell regardless.

Even when she pulled away as she grew truly fearful of the possibility of mirroring his emotions, Marcus believed it to be a victory. An acknowledgement that she indeed did care, only that was she was scared and unequipped to deal with the depth of her emotions. Marcus was content to give her space and time, assured that she would eventually see the futility in denying her emotions for him.

It was stupidity and hubris and that last night at Redcliffe she cruelly stripped him of both.

Marcus didn't remember the words she spoke, only the rush of rage and disgust he felt when the true reasons for her seduction and companionship became clear. He remembered the despair as his feelings for her crumbled under the weight of her cruel offer and betrayal.

The witch had offered him salvation, a chance live, unlike any warden who had ever slain an Archdemon. The only cost was allowing an abomination to be birthed into the world.

He could not remember how long it took him to decide, how long it took him to accept death, but he remembered the strength of his conviction when he finally told her no. For a single moment, Marcus was sure he saw grief flash through the witch's eyes. But those golden eyes, eyes he found himself loving to death, hardened so quickly it was as if it had never happened.

She raged, she begged, she threatened, but Marcus refused to be deterred. In the end, she threw up her hands in disgust and said she was leaving, refusing to be party to his "noble" suicide. For a moment Marcus faltered, almost moving forward to grip her wrist, to beg her to stay.

To beg her to love him.

But in the end he remembered his honour, his noble blood, and duty as both a Fereldan and Gray Warden, so thus Marcus hardened his heart and let her go. It hurt beyond belief, but then again he was already a dead man walking. What were a few more day of pain before the blessed silence of eternal oblivion?

Thus he was as surprised as anyone in his position could be when Morrigan stayed instead, a hovering presence during the forced march to Denerim. No words were spoken between them until they reached the city, and even then the words were small and meaningless. She had hurt and betrayed him whilst he had defied her.

There was no longer any reason for her to pretend to care, so when she ghosted her pale hand across his face, Marcus was taken by surprise. Looking down at her, he finally saw the truth in her grief stricken eyes, that she indeed loved him after all.

His witch loved him.

And thus Marcus Cousland was finally at peace.

**A God Dies:**

Marcus hears it in his head.

Screaming and crying, his very blood raging with the suffering of the dying god before him. The taint speaks to him, calls to him, every howl of the fell beast reverberating through his skull. It is a wonder he can still stand.

He knows that his companions are around him but Marcus can no longer see or hear them. Only the tainted god in front of him, howling and raging across the roof of Fort Dakon. The rage and anguish within its every call nearly staggers Marcus, and for one horrifying moment he actually feels the tainted blood within his veins responding.

And he feels its pain.

The fallen god wishes to die rather than live as a crazed demon.

Gathering what little strength he has left in his tired limbs, Marcus raises mighty Starfang as he advances upon the writhing dragon. Every step renews his strength and conviction, every step advances his destiny. Marcus was never sure where he stood in regards to the Maker, but as he finally breaks into a run, blade raised high, he recites of the Canticle of Andraste.

_Let the blade pass through the flesh,_  
><em>Let my blood touch the ground,<em>  
><em>Let my cries touch their hearts.<em>  
><em>Let mine be the last sacrifice.<em>

The Grey Warden embraces his fate and swings his blade.

A god dies.

A flash of light, and then finally blessed oblivion.

_~.~.~.~.~.~.~  
><em>

_He doesn't know where his is, for darkness and shadows permeate this place._

_He floats in the swirling mist of dark for…minutes? Hours? Days? He doesn't know, for time is strange in this place. A seemingly vast emptiness of nothing stands before him, with seemingly no end or beginning._

_Is this what it feels like to have your soul destroyed?_

_Then suddenly he feels it, calling to his blood, like an endless beacon that he cannot shake. Turning around in the shadows, he finally sees it. It is man or demon? He cannot make out its shape, but he is immediately drawn to its most striking feature._

_A pair of golden eyes._

_Finally it speaks to him, with a voice both ancient and young, tinged with a deep sense of respect and gratitude._

"_Thank you, father."_

_Marcus Cousland screams._

_~.~.~.~.~.~.~  
><em>

_Marcus still screams as he wakes within one of the healing tents, heaving up with such force that most of his wounds reopen. Wynne immediately rushes to his side, but in his confusion and horror he does not see her. He remembers only the only the presence, its voice and words._

_Marcus remembers the golden eyes, and he knows._

_As the elder mage tries in vain to get Marcus to lie back down and tend to his wound, helped by his other companions who had rushed into the tent upon hearing his scream, his thoughts were only on his witch._

_His traitorous, lying witch who loved him after all._

"_Damn it all Morrigan, what have you done?" _


	2. Initium

A/N:

Well, his is my first ever proper attempt to write a fan fiction. The prologue was to set the stage, and henceforth the story begins proper.

This will mostly be AU, disregarding the Witch Hunt DLC until probably a later point in the future. The events in Kirkwall WILL happen, as per my play through, but it will be tweaked to fit my pacing. I will insure no characters bashing takes place (should not be an issue since I liked most of the NPC's), and hopefully keep everyone in character as best I can. But I will probably tweak personalities here and there if required to work better with my setting.

And fair warning, this will not be some fairytale ending of the hero getting the woman he loves. It will end well overall, but it will be bittersweet.

That being said, again, this story is AU and is totally wish fulfillment on my part.

Thank you to JenaMira for beta reading for me!

Enjoy! And if you do, please review!

Disclaimer: All characters and story belong to Bioware.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"_Never has a man risen so high in the estimation of his fellow Fereldens, so his fall from grace when it came to pass was such a shock it would forever reverberate through the annals of this proud nation's history._

_None can agree how it came to pass, but many contend the seeds were sown during the 6__th__ year (Dragon Age 9:36) of his reign as Arl of Amaranthine and Commander of the Gray Wardens of Ferelden._

_The year Empress Celene of Orlais herself paid visit to the Court of King Allistair and Queen Anora."_

_Exodus, Fall of a Hero – Brother Genitivi, Dragon Age 9:45_

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Chapter 01 - Initium

"_This is most strange, Warden."_

_Marcus cracked open his eyes, looking up at the person whose lap his head was currently resting upon. Catching those golden eyes, eyes that still captivated him and drove him to distraction, Marcus chuckled slightly and nuzzled his nose into her stomach, earning a light slap to the back of his head._

_Allowing another chuckle to slip past his lips as she began to scowl in annoyance, Marcus shifted so that he could look up at her again. "Is that so witch? Pray tell Morrigan, what vexes you?"_

_Narrowing her eyes, the Witch of the Wilds spread her hands and simply indicated the vast plains that stood before them. "This place Warden, it is not of your memories, nor is it one of mine. And yet it is always the construct your mind wills when you slumber in the fade."_

_Smiling again as he rose, Marcus moved one hand behind her head, pulling her down for a searing kiss. Pulling away moments later, Marcus noticed the softening of her eyes, and felt his heart constrict. Marcus tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and ran his finger across her jaw line._

"_This place is untainted, my love, neither by my mistakes nor your betrayal and lies. It is wholly mine, and yet never truly so." He hesitated a moment, before laying a chaste kiss upon her forehead. "Here at least I can pretend you are real, that we are real."_

_His Witch looked trouble and…saddened? Frowning and confused, Marcus was about to ask when he suddenly felt it. A feeling of dread, of fear, of taint and horror. _

_Of Love._

_Turning back he sees it, a shimmering form, clear and yet unclear to his eyes. Small, like a child, but with a profound sense of ancientness that the warden could not comprehend. But the eyes, Marcus would never forget the eyes. The eyes that spoke to him in the dark abyss, ancient and young, all those years ago._

_And now it spoke again, voiced with the innocence of a child. _

"_We are coming, Father. Soon we will all be together again as we always should have been."_

_Marcus Cousland felt the scream die in his throat._

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Dragon Age 9:36, Present Day - Vigil's Keep

"Papa? Papa, you need to wake. Varel says we need to make ready to leave for Denerim, something about not being late and having Uncle Ali sulk."

Blinking open his eyes, Marcus took a moment to adjust his eyesight to the light pouring through his window. The dream had unnerved Marcus, and he was more than slightly worried by the nature of it. Never had a dream of his been so vivid and real, every taste and touch true and right.

The voice scared him most, for it felt not of an attempted intrusion by a fade demon, but rather an actual promise. But it was a mere dream. A mere figment….

"PAPA! You're not listening to me!"

Groaning as he rubbed his forehead, he gingerly opened his eyes and peered at the little girl standing beside his bed. Hands on waist, legs spread, blonde hair tied into a bun, blue eyes piercing and a pout upon her face, Marcus thought she looked absolutely adorable.

His Amethyne. His sweet, beautiful Amethyne. Marcus thanked the Maker everyday for bringing this little bundle of joy into his life.

She knew she was in trouble the moment the glint came to his eyes and his mouth curved slightly upwards. Not moving away fast enough, she shrieked as Marcus grabbed by the waist and pulled her close. Bestowing a sloppy kiss upon her cheek, she giggled as Marcus tweaked her sharp elvin ears.

"Papa!" she shrieked and giggled with both humor and embarrassment. "I am already twelve for Makers sake!"

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Dragon Age 9:30, 2 months after the fall of the Archdemon - Castle Cousland

_Marcus sat casually in his chair, facing his brother across the table in their fathers – no, now Fergus's – study. His brother seemed to have trouble deciding whether to look surprised or chagrined upon hearing his request._

_Marcus silently sipped upon a fine Antivian brandy as he waited for his brother to decide how he wanted to handle this._

_Gathering himself, Fergus finally spoke, sounding almost eerily like their father._

"_Do you even understand the enormity of what you are asking of me, little brother?"_

"_Ah," Marcus mumbled as he set the brandy down, "annoyed it is then."_

_Rising from his chair, Fergus Cousland paced the room as a he frowned in annoyance. "You want to me allow you to adopt a child into the Couland line? An elven child no less? Maker's breath Marcus, do you even begin to understand the uproar this would cause amongst the Bannorn?"_

_Sitting down, Fergus drowned his entire glass in one go before speaking again. "Whatever results the King's recent elven policies achieve, there is no possible way the nobility would accept an elven lass as a Cousland. For Maker's sake Marcus, a knife-"_

_Slamming his hands unto the table, Marcus glared at his brother. "Fergus, I love you and I can never tell you how happy I was to learn that you survived Ostagar, but I will suffer no insult to my ward from anyone. Not even you."_

_Not allowing Fergus the chance to get a word in, Marcus forged on. "I will adopt her, Fergus, no matter what you say. Whatever holdings due to me I will leave to her and her heirs. But the problem is no matter my standing, this will most likely be disputed." Taking another sip of brandy, Marcus was silent for a moment before speaking again. "But if you allowing me to bring her into the line, her status as my heir cannot be questioned. She will be blood, and no one will be able to take it away from her. And…" _

_Marcus did not want to bring this up, but felt he had no choice. "And you WILL marry again, and you will have new heirs. So there will never be an issue of her supplanting true born Cousland's for Highever. I need this only to secure my personal holdings for her, nothing more. I beg of you brother, grant me this boon." _

_Fergus regarded his brother silently, eyes darkening at the mention of his murdered wife and son. _

"_Why Marcus? Why do you need to do this?" Fergus asked._

_Marcus nursed the brandy, eyes darkening as his memories turned to the dark days of Howe's assault upon their ancestral home. "I killed her mother Fergus, and no, don't protest. Iona was such a sweet thing, in awe of me, and I took advantage of her. I took her to my bed with no intention other than to sate my lust, nothing more. If...If she had remained in the servant's quarters, she might still be alive; she might have gone home to her girl."_

"_Instead she died in my arms when they stormed my rooms, taking an arrow meant for me. She begged me, begged, that her daughter would be safe, be taken care of." Drowning his brandy, Marcus felt his voice crack as he continued, "I promised her Fergus, and a Cousland always keeps his word."_

_Silence permeated the room, Marcus pouring himself another glass as he awaited his brother's decision. Finally sighing, Fergus rose from his and moved towards the door. "Well, come on then."_

_Catching Marcus's confused look, Fergus suddenly grinned and looked for that moment his old self again. "Introduce my niece to me, so I can begin my tenure as the uncle that spoils her rotten."_

_For the first time since the blight ended, Marcus found himself happy__._

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Laughing heartily, Marcus gently lowered Amethyne back to the floor. "Never pup; you'll always be my little girl. My sweet, loveable, little Ame." For good measure, Marcus bestowed another light kiss unto her forehead.

Wrinkling her nose, the girl began to pout. "Papa, pup is such a horrible nickname, and completely unsuitable for a girl. I am a child no longer Papa."

Marcus laughed, "Maybe so, love, and I see your lessons have served you well. See how eloquently you speak! But do allow your dear father some allowances, pup. Soon you really will be too old for nicknames and hugs." Stoking her cheeks, he sighed wistfully, "Already I see your mother in you, more and more every day, my sweet Ame."

Amethyne let out a long suffering sigh, rolling her eyes for dramatic effect. "And in Andraste's name, stop talking to me like I am still seven Papa. Soon I will be-"

Putting one finger to her lips to silence her, Marcus grinned as he lightly ruffled her hair.

"Aye that is true enough lass. But then again, I am told it is a father's duty to forever embarrass a beloved daughter."

Hoisting himself off the bed, Marcus made his way to the washbasin at the window to rinse his face. "Pup, why don't you rouse Barak from in front of the fireplace and make him run a few rounds? Might as well stretch his old legs out before we begin the trip to Denerim."

Finally wiping the pout from her face, replacing it with a grin, Ame gave Marcus a nod before rushing out to find the Mabari.

Washing his face, Marcus slowly pondered the upcoming trip. The Landsmeet was in three months, but most nobles had been requested to turn up early so a certain momentous occasions could be discussed and celebrated.

First of course there was the birth of the royal heir, Crown Prince Gareth Theirin, only four months ago. It was a birth long awaited by the nation, hoping for true stability upon the throne. There was much joy and revelry when it finally came to pass.

Personally, Marcus was just surprised the babe had somehow managed to not be named Duncan.

Secondly, and probably the more important in the larger scale of things, the visit of the Empress of Orlais, Celene I, during the landsmeet. There was bound to be argument, debates and insults, and challenges thrown about when the matter was discussed, as many were still unhappy with the prospect of the Orlesian monarch on Ferelden soil.

As Loghain so aptly proved all those years ago, old pains were still raw amongst some.

Looking out the window onto the courtyard, the sight of Ame chasing after Barak as they weaved between soldier and warden alike, laughter alive in the air, brought a wry smile unto Marcus's face.

"Denerim, politics and Orlais." Marcus muttered almost bitterly as he made his way to the bath, "What a horrible way to spend the next few months."

In the years to come, Marcus would wish that he had paid far more attention to that feeling of dread.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Dragon Age 9:36, Present Day - Val Royeaux, The Royal Palace:

A young boy, no more than five, wandered the halls of the royal palace, his curiosity getting the better of him. It was probably the first time his mother had ever let him out her sight for this long, and truth be told he had grown rather bored of the royal gardens and library. Maybe this time he could…

"Fionn!"

Rolling his eyes, the young lad sighed as he turned around to the sight of his mother bearing down on him. She did not look pleased.

His mother was scary when displeased.

Figuring that apologizing might save him from a lecture, the boy quickly took upon what he presumed to be an apologetic look and turned to face her. "Good morning, la mere, I noticed you were quite busy, so I thought I take a walk. I am sorry if I worried you."

Tapping her staff upon the floor, his mother did not look impressed at all, despite his advanced eloquence.

His instructors had been surprised by his quick grasp of concepts supposedly beyond his age, most simply considering him gifted. Fionn sometimes wondered how they would react it they knew what he used to be.

Not that he had any real memory of it anyway.

"Very charming Fionn, you can be so when it pleases you." Suddenly a look of pain, grief and emotion the lad could not place clouded her face as her fingers grazed his cheek. "So much like you father, so much of him in you."

Taking his hand, she began leading him back to their rooms. After a moment, Fionn finally found the courage to speak. "La mere?"

Silently, his mother turned to look at him, not slowing her pace.

"I spoke to father today." His mother's grip tightened. "He dreams of you still, la mere, almost every time I dare to look." A bit afraid at his mother's reaction, he ploughed ahead anyway. "You were there as well, weren't you? I noticed your presence, every now and then."

Taking her silence as license to continue speaking, Fionn continued on. "I…I told him we were coming. Do you think he will be pleased?"

Finally stopping, she leaned down and took her son's face in her hands. "Yes, my love, I think he will be."

As he son hugged her tightly, Morrigan wished she could actually believe it.


	3. Interlude I  Rex

A/N:

A short interlude set two days before Marcus Cousland's arrival at Denerim centering between King Alistair and Queen Anora.

Again, this story is AU and is totally wish fulfillment on my part.

Thank you to JenaMira for beta reading for me!

Enjoy! And if you do, please review!

Disclaimer: All characters and story belong to Bioware.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"_Many Fereldens were unsure what to make of King Alistair Theirin when he came into power. While most were pleased that the blood of Calenhad remained upon the Ferelden throne, some were wary of the common, unknown blood that flowed through his veins. A maid in Redcliffe was supposedly his mother, and he was borne of an indiscretion by a revered king._

_It did not help that Queen Rowan, mother of King Cailan, was much loved and as such Alistair's very existence was an affront to her. He was a mistake by a husband who should have mourned her loss forever, rather than succumb to such base desires. _

_Commoner, Warrior, Warden, Oathbreaker and Bastard Prince. Many facets there were to the King of Ferelden, and at times his people had trouble deciding which version of their King they should relate to._

_The first few years of his reign were difficult and trying, as Ferelden struggled to recover from the Blight. Huge swaths of farmlands were lost to the taint, forcing the import of necessities at large quantities that it quickly drained the nation's coffers. The Bannorn began to have trouble to keeping the populace fed and taken care of, and a few occasional riots broke out._

_Thankfully Alistair and Queen Anora managed to forge steady relationships with the city-states of the Free Marches, ensuring a steady supply of trade. In the third year of his reign, King Alistair journeyed to Orlais and somehow managed to convince her Empress, Celene I, to enter into a treaty of peace and cooperation._

_For the first time in their torrid history, the two nations were truly at peace with each other._

_As Ferelden began to recover and heal, most Fereldens rallied behind the leadership of King Alistair and Queen Anora, even agreeing that maybe the Blight was worth it to end up with such competent and caring monarchs."_

_The Accidental King – Brother Aldus, Dragon Age 9:52_

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Dragon Age 9:36 – Present Day, the Royal Nursery, Denerim

Alistair sat in the chair, looking down at his infant son sleeping on the bassinet.

**His **son_. _

The concept still scared the hell of out him, more so than taking the throne ever did. Would he ever truly be worthy of the duty required of him in this matter? To have someone utterly dependent on him? Leaning down, he stroked the small tuft hair upon his son's head. It was sandy blonde, much like his own, though Anora said there would be a chance the hair may darken as he grows older.

"Hopefully you take a bit more after your mother rather than me, boy. Even now I am unsure how she deals with having me around, and she tends to be woman of seemingly infinite patience"

Anora Mac Tir. His wife, mother of his child and daughter of the man whom he hated (still did, despite his death).

Chuckling quietly Alistair wondered how they ever managed to ever work that out, though he'd learned over the years that Anora was sensible and logical to a fault. His was king, she was Queen, and as such it simply would not to do for them to hate each other.

And so she simply chose to not hate Alistair, despite his role in the death of Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir.

Sometimes he marveled at her ability to simply shut things away and wondered if he would ever learn the skills to do so himself. Most of the time though she simply sacred him. Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice the nursery door opening.

"You're here early."

Startled for a moment, the King eyed the rising sun from the open window, before turning to the women standing regally at the nursery door. For a woman not well versed in the martial arts, Anora could move as silently as any rogue Alistair had ever faced in combat.

And how in Andraste's name could the woman look so polished, so freshly awakened at this ungodly hour?

"The chantry always was a stickler for early rising, and while I am sure there was a legitimately divined reason for it, personally I think the Templar's just liked messing around with us. Oh, there was this one-"

Her light fingers on his shoulders, gently pushing into the flesh, silenced him for the moment. Instead he leaned back and allowed his queen to slowly knead the tension out of him as she spoke. "I have shared your bed for the last two years your highness, I am well aware of your sleeping habits."

Slowly her fingers traced his jaw line, moving up to gently message his temples.

"I am merely referring to your presence here, at this hour, when you would normally be down at the training grounds attempting to goad the guard captain into genuinely swinging a sword at you. I am most certain that guards will begin to panic at your lack of presence, my husband."

Chuckling slightly, Alistair took hold of her small hands and gracefully moved her onto his lap, ignoring her surprised squeak at his actions. Personally he was surprised that she allowed it all, an ingrained thought brought on by how their marriage had begun.

Up to two years ago they barely ever shared a bed, until he finally sat her down and demanded that things needed to change, especially if they had to begin to seriously consider the issue of an heir. So sure that Anora would ignore him, the King had been downright flabbergasted when she instead agreed and promptly moved her things into the king's chambers.

It was only later that he would learn that she had been as lonely as he was and that she had been truly been in love with her late husband.

A queen genuinely in love with her king? Alistair was sure that the nobility would have been scandalized by the mere thought of such madness.

This of course explained her discomfort with him. He was Cailan's brother, with whom he shared many similar physical traits. It also did not help that it was rumored that King Cailan had quite a history of keeping mistresses and also that Alistair had been in love with another woman when the idea for their marriage had been brought up.

That Marcus had somehow allowed this to slip still annoys Alistair to this day.

But it would seem that was in the past for now, with her growing intimacy and closeness a genuine joy for him. Was he in love with her? No, not yet. But he was beginning to feel that he would be fine with it, welcoming it, even if she was her father's daughter.

"So deep in thought you are husband. What troubles you so?"

Looking down at Anora, who had rested her head on his chest, Alistair lightly sighed as he planted soft kiss on her forehead. "Nothing of import my queen, only that _the visit_ has everyone in knots, and it's making me antsy. Eamon is running himself ragged to insure nothing contravenes protocol, but thankfully Lady Isolde is well-versed in Orlesion nobility, so she has been a lifesaver."

Looking at their son, Alistair lightly dropped his head against his wife's forehead. "Being with Gareth calms me, and considering that the entirely of the Bannorn is about descend upon me, I have a feeling that I will need to stay calm less I order someone to Fort Dakon.

Alistair smiled as he felt Anora gently laughed into his chest. He continued, "On the other hand, Marcus should be-"

The king groaned as he felt his queen tense beneath him, mentally slapping himself for his stupidity.

_Alistair you stupid, stupid man!_

Moving his finger to her chin, Alistair gently lifted her face to him. "It's been six years, Anora. Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive him?"

"No. I will afford him respect and civility due to his station and his relationship to you. But I...I..."

Tearing away from his scrutiny, Anora rose to her feet and looked upon their son, lest her emotions got the better of her. "I am sorry my husband, but forgiveness is beyond me. I cannot and will not forgive him for the manner in which he took my father's life, no matter how justified it was."

Getting herself under control, Anora gently reach down to touch Gareth as she continued. "For all his faults, and there were many, my father deserved better than to die in the very halls he help liberate whilst a crowd of fools cheered his death."

Rising in the chair, Alistair turned her back to face him. "And what of me? Am I forgiven for my part in the matter?"

Her answer was so swift and sure that Alistair was taken by surprise.

"Yes. You faced him in single combat and defeated my father honorably, despite your hatred of him. Do you think I would come to care for you if I could not forgive you?"

Moved by her words, Alistair was speechless, so he simply pulled her forward and kissed her. It was passionate and hungry and should they have been in their chambers, it would have continued in an entirely different direction.

Finally freeing her mouth, and chuckling at the flush spreading across her cheeks, Alistair gently moved her against his chest as he lightly stoked her back. For quite a while they stayed as such, until a hesitant greeting caught Alistair's attention.

Turning his head to the nursery door, he noted the presence of Gareth's nursemaid (he would never get used to all the bowing and curtseying) on her knees. Waving his hands at her as an acknowledgment of her presence and permission to rise, Alistair grew worried when he noticed the regiment of guards moving down the hallway towards the nursery.

"Lady Carina, what is going on? Why are my guards descending upon us with such…..vigor?"

The young girl almost flinched with indecision, probably wondering if she should allow the guard captain the honor, or instead repeat whatever she had heard on the servant's gossip grapevine. After a few seconds of thought, if would seem she would talk after all.

"An Orlesion rider came upon the palace steps not 15 minutes ago, your majesty, claiming to be the Left Hand of the Divine and demanding an immediate audience with you. She also claimed to be a friend, my Lord, and that you would be most vexed if she was kept waiting. "

For a moment Alistair was confused, what on earth would the Divine want with him? "Orlesion you say? And a friend? Who on earth could she...oh. OH. _Leilana?_ The Left hand of the Divine? When did that happen?"

And for the second time this morning, Alistair felt his wife go tense in arms. But before he could speak, she gently removed herself from his grasp, and turned again towards Gareth's bassinet. "You should go meet her now, husband. Whatever message she brings from the Divine could be most important."

Wrecked with indecision, Alistair found himself unsure. "Would you not join me Anora?"

Silence greeted his question for a moment, before she gently shook her head. 'No, she will more likely feel comfortable talking to you alone, more so if whatever news she brings is important. And you have both kept your promises in regards to your previous relationship; it would be churlish of me to distrust you or…_her _now." Turning back to him, Anora offered Alistair a small smile. "I think I shall stay with Gareth instead, for he calms me as well."

Silently nodding, for Alistair could find no suitable reply, he quickly made his way out to the hallway before his guard captain had a chance to break into the nursery with an entire army at her back.

"Seriously Cauthrien, an entire regiment? For one Orlesion woman—who is a friend, by the way? I slew the Witch of the Wilds for Maker's sake."

Sighing as the guards formed around him and escorted him to his office, Alistair silently mumbled to himself, "And to think this had started out a fine, fine morning."


End file.
